


The Consulting Daughter

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confrontation, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Mandy's blog, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:21:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Little Rosie Watson is no more; in her place stands Amanda Holmes-Watson, a young lady with a lot to say in her blog about life with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson





	1. Blog Entry 1

Hi! This is my private blog, where I can write down all the things I think and feel and remember about my rather unusual life with some very unusual people.

 

My name is Mandy. Well, that’s not my _real_ name, of course, but pretty much everybody calls me that--except Daddy, that is. He can be sort of a prickly pear about it sometimes; he says “’Amanda’ is a name with a sense of _gravitas_. ‘Mandy’ sounds like a barmaid serving pints down at the local pub, and I’ll _not_ have anyone mistaking the two. Not with _my_ daughter.” And as if _that_ wasn’t bad enough, things only get worse when my friend Andrew comes over. Drew and I have been almost inseparable since we were little, so everyone thinks we’re a single unit. The wags call us “Mandy and Andy”. God, Daddy _hates_ that. “A couple of Monty Pythonesque characters”, he sniffs in disdain.

 

Daddy can be a bit of a pain sometimes, but I love him dearly.

 

At any rate, my _real_ name is Amanda Violetta Holmes-Watson. It isn’t my original name; my parents came up with it “for a very good reason” that they won’t tell me. It was quite a row, from what I hear. Papa wanted me to have a pretty, girly name, while Daddy wanted something sort of romantic and dramatic, like from an opera. They compromised. They always do, eventually.

 

And, yes, in case you were wondering, my parents are, indeed, the world-renowned Sherlock Holmes and his husband, Doctor John H. Watson, Consulting Detectives _extraordinaire_. They’re sometimes called “the Consulting Husbands” by some of the officers at the Yard—the same ones who later coined the phrase “Consulting Daughter” when Daddy and Papa couldn’t get a sitter and would show up to a crime scene carrying me in a baby sling.  I understand there were a lot of laughs at their expense until Papa finally couldn’t take it anymore and defended Daddy’s decision to bring me by punching a rookie in the face so hard he had to spend the night in A &E for a concussion. Drew’s dad, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, didn’t even press charges. He said he had warned everyone to behave and that Papa had every right to stand up for his family. Suffice to say, I _really_ like Drew’s father.

 

Anyway, on the subject of names again; Daddy may not call me Mandy or anything, but he _does_ have his own peculiarities. Papa told me that, when I was a baby and had just starting to eat solid food, he and Daddy would feed me little portions of their breakfasts. One day, Daddy offered me a pinch of raisin muffin. Papa said my eyes got real wide and I started wolfing down the pieces so fast that I started chewing on Daddy’s fingers to get them all. Soon, I was covered in muffin crumbs, even in my hair! He said that Daddy laughed and started calling me his “little muffin-head”, which later got shortened to “Muffin”. Yes, you heard that right. After all his complaints about nicknames, my Daddy calls me Muffin. There is no sense in the universe.

 

I should probably mention Papa somewhere in here. He’s actually the quieter of the two, generally speaking. Daddy can be a bit outspoken (though not by many people) when he is on the job because, as he puts it, he “can’t abide fools and their follies”. Papa, on the other hand, is a lot more polite and reserved. He was a military doctor, you know, so he had to know how to keep his calm no matter how chaotic things would get around him. He also knows how to keep Daddy in check during his more, shall we say, “dramatic” moments. Aside from the rookie-popping incident, Papa has had to defend Daddy from people who have wanted to hurt him for any number of reasons—usually because Daddy was getting too close to the truth and the people were feeling threatened, or because he wasn’t exactly polite or tactful with them. I love hearing Daddy take someone to task like that because it lets me add all kinds of weapons to my verbal arsenal; beside that, they usually deserve it. Papa is always ready to defend Daddy—and me—and it makes me feel really safe to be with him.

 

Living with the famous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson is never dull, I can assure you of that!

 

You know what I really love about my home life, though? I love how Daddy and Papa are with each other, and with me. They didn’t get married to each other until after I was born because my mother and Papa were still married, but they’ve been in love, like, _forever_. Sometimes, they still get all kissy-kissy around the flat and I tell them to get a room before they’re arrested for corrupting the morals of a minor. Besides that, they’re so… _old_! They should have gotten all that out of their systems when they were younger! But I still love the way they fuss over me. They always have. Mrs. Hudson says that they think the sun rises and the moon set on my shoulders. They sure don’t let me “get away” with anything, though. I may be Papa’s “little princess” and Daddy’s “muffin”, but they love me enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.

 

I don’t really miss having a mother because I’ve never _had_ one, but I sometimes wonder about her and how she died, just like anyone would. Papa and Daddy are really tight-lipped about my mother’s death. They promised to tell me when I’m “old enough”, but I’m still waiting. All I know, so far, is that she died in some sort of accident shortly after I was born, and Papa and I moved in with Daddy. It must have been an interesting time for them, at least according to Mrs. “Not Your Babysitter” Hudson, who ended up taking care of me whenever Daddy and Papa had to rush off for one reason or another. She’s like a grandmother to me now, much more than even my Grandma Holmes, who’s always been a bit stand-offish toward me. Daddy always looks uncomfortable whenever she’s around, even though Papa is always polite toward her and she toward him. I don’t think she quite knows what to make of me, though. Daddy adopted me as his own when he and Papa married, but I don’t think she feels toward _me_ the way she would feel toward a natural child of Daddy’s. Like _that’s_ ever going to happen…

 

Well, I guess maybe that’s enough for now. Got lots more to say but Daddy says I need to get some sleep. That’s actually a laugh because Daddy is the biggest night owl on the planet and doesn’t get to sleep much before dawn. The good part of that, though, is that he plays his violin while he thinks at night and it’s so pleasant to fall asleep to Brahms! Good night, all!


	2. Blog Entry 2

****

Happy Anniversary, Daddy and Papa!

 

My parents have been married 14 years today! And I was there!

 

Well, not exactly. I was a babe-in-arms at the time. It was shortly after my mum died, so it must have been sort of a whirlwind affair. They’d been besties for years—flatmates, even—well before mum’s accident, but Papa didn’t know that Daddy had been in love with him for years.  I guess Daddy was there for Papa and…well, I’m not entirely sure how that all happened because neither one is willing to discuss that time. They just say that they “fell in love” and decided to marry so that I would have a stable family life.

 

As it turns out, Mrs. Hudson told me that Papa was in love with Daddy, too, but that he married Mum because he thought Daddy was dead. She probably would have told me more, but Daddy and Papa took her aside and told her that I was too young to find out. She became real mum on the subject after that. Didn’t help, though. I Googled the two of them and found out _some_ of what happened, but not _near_ enough. I keep prodding them to tell me, but the magic number seems to be 18. Both have said that, on my 18 th birthday, they would tell me _everything_. I’m holding them to that.

 

You may be wondering, about now, why I call my natural father Papa while I call my adoptive father Daddy. Well, it goes something like this; Daddy was the one who was with me most of the time when I was growing up. Papa always had his practice, small as it is, so Daddy was the one who was witness to most of my age-appropriate breakthroughs. One day, while Papa was at work and Daddy was feeding me, I yelled “Dada!” at him with a mouthful of mashed peas. Mrs. Hudson told me, much later, that Daddy was _so_ excited that he yelled downstairs “She called me Dada!”  He was _thrilled_! When Papa came home, Daddy said, with tears in his eyes, “She called me Dada, John! _Me,_ of all people!” Papa saw how proud he was and couldn’t bear to take that away from him. Since then, Sherlock Holmes has been Daddy and John Watson has been Papa and never the twain shall meet. Mrs. Hudson, of course, is still Mrs. Hudson.

 

I think I scared the heck out of Daddy and Papa today, but I don’t know why. I came home from school and, after dropping my books off in my room (which used to be Papa’s room before he and Daddy got married), went downstairs to tell them about my day. Daddy reprimanded me for making so much noise on the stairs but he was smiling when he said it. He’s always worried that we will disturb Mrs. Hudson, though I don’t know why since she’s getting on in years and really doesn’t have the best hearing anymore. I stuck my tongue out at him and went into the kitchen to get a glass of milk. I love milk, just like Papa. Daddy uses it to grow specimens, so we run out a lot.

 

When Papa arrived home from the clinic, he looked pretty beat. He just plopped down on his chair without even taking off his coat. Daddy smiled at him and used his toes to nudge Papa into taking off his shoes. They can be so funny to watch sometimes, like they can communicate without ever saying a word. Anyhow, Papa took off his shoes and, finally, his jacket, which he threw at me to hang up for him. He knows I’ll do it, even if I make a fuss about it. I had to reach up to hang it next to Daddy’s greatcoat. Daddy says that coat has been with him through all sorts of adventures and has a story all its own. He keeps teasing me with it, that he would tell me one day. I guess the 18 rule is in effect for that, too.

 

When Papa asked me how school had gone, I mentioned that we had just gotten a new school nurse. She’s very pretty and quite quick-witted, which makes visiting her less unpleasant than with our old nurse. She’s got short, blond hair and her eyes are just so huge! I kinda like her already… Anyway, I told Daddy and Papa about her, and that her name is RoseMary Morse. They both looked like they’d just been jolted by a cattle prod. Daddy sat bolt upright with a shocked expression while Papa’s feet kicked up in the air as he bounded to his feet with a yelp. I’d never seen either one of them react like that before and it was, frankly, a bit alarming.

 

Then came a barrage of questions that I tried to answer but couldn’t. Daddy grabbed up Papa’s laptop and started doing internet searches while Papa paced around the room, muttering to himself. Daddy finally looked up and said, “There’s no record of her presence anywhere on the internet. I’m going to contact Mycroft…”

 

_That_ got my attention, as well as Papa’s. Daddy never voluntarily talked to Uncle Mycroft unless there’s a national emergency. To say that they don’t get along is putting it nicely. Every time Uncle Myc comes over, he and Daddy get into a row, with Papa prowling around them both like a hungry panther. Sometimes, they almost come to blows, but Papa breaks them up before then and ushers Uncle Myc out the door. Uncle Myc barely even speaks to me; he just gives me this strange look, like I’m a walking ied about to explode. I guess that’s _another_ thing I’ll learn about when I’m 18.

 

As I said, before I distracted myself, today’s my parents’ anniversary. We’ll be going out to Angelo’s for dinner. I’m sure Papa will bring home flowers for Daddy to say, “John, you really shouldn’t have wasted the money on dead plants” before giving him a kiss and taking them over to the kitchen table for experimentation later tonight. I love going to Angelo’s. He’s so kind and makes a big fuss over us when we walk in. “The Great Holmes and Watson!” he proclaims, before adding, “and the little Holmes-Watson, of course!” He’ll seat us at the window seat—“where your parents came on their _first_ _date_ ”-- bring out a candle and his best wine for them (and some grape juice for me), and then we’ll order dinner. Daddy always says he’s not hungry, but always manages to eat half of Papa’s meal for him, so Papa always orders something he likes for Daddy, knowing Daddy won’t eat it. It’s so funny, watching them together. The way they look at each other, it’s called “relationship goals”. I hope, some day, I’ll find someone who’ll look at _me_ that way…

 

Well, time for bed, again. This whole “sleeping” thing really takes a bite out of my day! Maybe Daddy will play a little Mozart this time…Night, all!


	3. Blog Entry 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things can turn on a dime...

Okay, weirdness. Last night, Daddy didn’t play his violin much. I _did_ hear him pacing a lot until Papa came out of his room. I could hear them talking, though it was pretty muted; I’m sure they didn’t want to wake me, but sound travels in these old houses and they seldom close the two doors on the second floor. I sit at the top of the stairs and listen sometimes. I can be very quiet; sometimes I startle Papa when I pad into the kitchen in the morning. I’m like Papa in that way; more of an early bird. He was in the military, you know. Best army doctor in all of Afghanistan! At least, that’s what Daddy says, but I think he might be a bit biased.

 

Some mornings I’ll take Daddy in his morning coffee. Daddy mostly drinks tea, but coffee helps him crawl out of bed. It’s kind of like watching a snake reluctantly slither out of a pile of leaves. Papa said that Daddy used to sleep _au naturel_ , but that changed once Papa and I moved in with him. See, Daddy has really sensitive skin and can’t bear any clothing that is restrictive or chafing, so he wears a lot of silk and cashmere blends. Even his pj’s are silk! I love doing his laundry so I can touch such soft things! No, I’m not sick; I just wish I had stuff like that.

 

So, anyhow, when Daddy gets out of bed, he sort of _slides_ out because of his silk pj’s. Some mornings, he’s actually ended up on the floor with a _thud_ , bleary-eyed and confused. Then Papa rushes in to help him back onto the bed, and checks him out for injury. One time, Daddy ended up with a black eye because he hit his head on the bedside table and Papa called out from his practice so he could stay with Daddy and fuss over him the rest of the day. Daddy loved it. He loves being fussed over by Papa and me. Papa says it’s because Daddy was treated very badly by others when he was younger, so now he just laps up the attention like a cat with cream. I feel sorry for Daddy; _nobody_ deserves to be treated badly just because they’re different. Especially when those differences make a person superlative, like Daddy.

 

Later on, after Daddy had re-learned language again, I asked him why he didn’t play the violin last night. He just shrugged it off, saying he didn’t “feel the music”, but I could tell something else was bothering him. He gets this “faraway” look in his eyes and he steeples his fingers in thought. Sometimes he’ll chew on the inside of his lip, too. Papa came over and ran his hand through Daddy’s hair, which was a mess of curls. I prefer it that way, and so does Papa, but Daddy always insists on styling it because he says it looks more “professional” for his clients. When Papa asked Daddy what he was thinking about, Papa’s eyes just quickly shifted to me and back, his shorthand for “not in front of the child”. Papa nodded and asked me to go upstairs and get dressed.

 

For the first time since I was a toddler, I protested. I told them I’m really getting tired of being treated like a child and being kept in the dark like a mushroom. The look on both their faces was priceless. Papa’s jaw dropped open and Daddy just stared at me in shock.

 

Daddy pointed at me and said, “That sass is _yours_ , John.”

 

“Upstairs, _now_ ,” Papa ordered, and, this time, I went. When Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers comes out, you _jump_.

 

I stopped at the top of the stairs to listen, but their voices were too low. Daddy sounded worried, though, and that worries _me_. Papa has always said that Daddy is pretty much fearless, even reckless, so if he sounds worried, it makes my imagination go into overdrive.

 

“Neither one of you is dying, are you?” I impulsively yelled over the banister.

 

“ ** _No_**! Now go get dressed!” that familiar deep voice yelled back. “We’ll talk later!”

 

Oops…the ever-popular “We’ll talk later” rarely means anything good. I just ducked into my room and got dressed. Fortunately, it was the weekend, so I could go full casual. This does _not_ mean, however, that I can wear anything particularly “trendy”. Papa is very practical about such things; “wear classic clothes,” he says. “You get more wear out of them.” _This_ from Mr. Jumpers-and-Cardigans. Daddy just smiles when he says that, but, then again, my Grandpa Holmes wears cardigans, too, so I guess that’s what Daddy’s used to.

 

When I got downstairs again, Daddy and Papa were both dressed and obviously waiting for something. Daddy sat and pondered, Papa paced, so, the usual. I drank the orange juice that Papa had put out for me and just watched the two of them. They didn’t say anything—after all, “the child” was in the room—but the worried looks and meaningful glances spoke volumes.

 

At one point, Papa pulled out his mobile, brought up something, and showed it to me. It was a picture of a lady with blond, finger-waved hair, huge eyes, and a pretty face with this sort-of smirk on her lips. “Familiar?” was all he said. I looked closely and nodded. “This is much younger, but yes, that’s her,” I said. Papa rolled his head and threw up his hands as he turned away. “God!” he yelled.

 

“Calm down, John,” was all Daddy said, in the quietest voice I’ve ever heard. Papa glared at him and pressed his lips together, but there were no further explosions. He just went back to pacing again.

 

Finally, there was a knock on the door. I could hear Mrs. Hudson come out of her flat on the first floor to open it. “Oh, it’s _you_ again,” she said, disapprovingly. The door closed. “Trying acting like a human being with the child this time, hmmm?” she snipped as footsteps mounted the stairs. There was no response, so I had a pretty good idea who it was.

 

Sure enough, Uncle Mycroft entered the parlor with his ubiquitous umbrella. He nodded at my parents. “Sherlock. John.”

 

Daddy nodded back. “Mycroft.” Papa said nothing but he clenched his hand. He always does that when he’s upset. Captain Watson was back in the building.

 

Uncle Myc looked around the room until he spied me at the kitchen table. His face didn’t change but his eyes looked…different. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Amanda,” he squeezed out through a tight jaw.

 

_This_ was new. Uncle Myc _never_ talks to me; in fact, he tries his darnedest not to even notice I _exist_. I nodded back. “Uncle Myc.”

 

Oh, God, the look on his face when I said that! I thought he was going to toss his breakfast. He opened his mouth to say something, but Daddy beat him to it. “Not now, Mycroft. What do you have for us?”

 

Uncle Myc turned back to Daddy and said, “I’ve found nothing.”

 

Daddy quirked his head to one side. “You mean, nothing of interest?”

 

Uncle Myc stared down his not-inconsiderably-long nose at Daddy and said, “No. I mean nothing. This person does not exist.”

 

Daddy didn’t move or say anything, but Papa was ready to burst. He clenched his had again before reaching toward a drawer in the desk and sliding it open. He looked down, as if to make sure it was there, then slid it shut again. He glanced at me meaningfully before returning his gaze to Uncle Myc. “I’m ready,” he said. “This time, I’m prepared.”

 

Uncle Myc sighed. “I do hope that will not be necessary. I will put the appropriate resources into place, just in case.”

 

Daddy nodded. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he said, softly. I’d never heard Daddy speak that way to Uncle Myc, so I _knew_ this had to be serious.

 

With a nod and a final glance at me, Uncle Myc left.

 

To say the very least, I was creeped out. Not because of Uncle Myc; he’s always like that. Because of Papa, because I _knew_ what was in that drawer, and I had been warned away from it many times.

 

It was Papa’s service gun. Even with a trigger lock on it, it scared me.

 

“Daddy? Papa?” I asked, my voice sounding kind of squeaky. “What’s wrong? Is it something I did?” Honestly, I felt like I was about to cry.

 

Papa rushed over to me and knelt down as Daddy levered himself out of his chair. “Oh, God, no, Princess! You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong! Daddy and I are just being especially careful, that’s all.” He hugged me so hard I knew something was wrong. Papa was scared.

 

Daddy meandered over and knelt beside me, too. His eyes were so _intense_ …”Muffin, there are bad people in the world…”

 

“ _Not now, Sherlock_!” Papa hissed. I think my eyes must have gone round because Papa _never_ uses that tone with Daddy in my presence.

 

Laying his hand on Papa’s shoulder, Daddy said, quietly, “The time for secrecy is past, John. She needs to know _some_ things, if not _all_. She needs to know how to protect herself.”

 

Then, the strangest thing happened. I felt wetness on my shoulder. Papa was crying.

 

“Papa? Please, don’t cry,” I said, and I started crying, too.

 

Daddy put his long arms around both of us and murmured, “There’s no need for this. We’ll take precautions, as we have always done. We _knew_ this could happen, John.” He kissed Papa’s head, then he kissed my cheek. “We’ll take care of you, Muffin, just as we always have.”

 

I was scared and I was confused. It’s not every day your world gets a shake-up like that.


	4. Blog Entry 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise...

It didn’t take more than a day before the whole thing came to a head in a _very_ unexpected way.

 

There was a knock on the door downstairs. I could hear Mrs. Hudson’s door open and her footsteps on the creaky hallway flooring. Then the front door opened and she gasped “Oh, my God!” It was _loud_. There was the sound of someone shushing her, then multiple footsteps on the stairs coming up to our flat.

 

Daddy peeked out the kitchen door and his face grew really hard. “Into my bedroom, Amanda. _Now_!” he ordered. I started to protest but he gave me this _look_ …

 

I _ran_ into the bedroom and slammed the door. I was _scared_.

 

I was also _horribly_ curious, so I crept into the bathroom and listened by the open door. What I heard was chilling.

 

“Are you out of your mind, Mycroft? Why did you bring _her_ here?” Daddy yelled.

 

“Because I believed her,” Uncle Myc responded.

 

“You believed Mrs. Norbury, too, and where did that get you?” Daddy yelled back. “She and her _agent_ …” he put a strange emphasis on that one word, “fouled up a major campaign with their little plot _right under your very nose_!”

 

“I know that,” Uncle Myc responded, his voice very quiet. “But we have discussed the matter and I believe what she says. What’s more, I researched her story and her whereabouts for the past 14 years and they fit with her accounts of what happened. While I don’t trust her any further than I could throw her with one hand…” There was a snort of disbelief that interrupted him, “I _do_ believe what my sources have revealed. Besides, if she tries anything, we know exactly where to find her.”

 

“Unless she disappears like she did the last time,” Papa chimed in. “Faked her death and faded into the woodwork—her trademark move.” I could tell he was angry. When Papa’s angry— _really_ angry—he smiles. It’s a scary smile. He’s never used it on me or Daddy, but Uncle Myc is _not_ immune.

 

“I came back,” a woman’s voice said, “to see her and to make sure she was growing up okay. That’s all.”

 

“That’s never ‘all’ with you,” Papa shot back. “There’s always another layer, like peeling back an onion.”

 

I couldn’t resist any longer. I may be Papa’s biological child, but Daddy instilled in me a curiosity about things that can’t be denied sometimes. I peeped out of the doorway. In the parlor stood Papa, with his hands clenched, arguing with a blond woman about his same height whose back was to me. Daddy sat in his chair, but he wasn’t relaxed. He was ready to bolt to his feet at any second, I could tell. Uncle Myc stood near the door, as if to make sure no one left the room without his say-so. All-in-all, it was tense. I pulled back, trying to remember where I had seen that lady before, and then it hit me. Ms. Morse, the school nurse. The one Daddy and Papa got upset about. Things were starting to come together.

 

I peeked out again, just in time to see Daddy look over at the doorway, as if to check on me. He saw me and his face grew dark. He mouthed, “Go!” just as the lady noticed his expression and turned around. She saw me just as I ducked back into the bathroom.

 

“Rosie!” she gasped. “You told me she wasn’t here, liar!”

 

“I never said that. I said she _might not_ be here. I had no idea,” Uncle Myc coolly informed her. Uncle Myc can be a real cold fish sometimes; other times, he’s just a pretentious penguin.

 

“Rosie! Come out here, dear!” the lady called.

 

I could hear Daddy jump out of his chair. **_“NO!”_** he roared. “You will _not_ interfere with this child’s life, do you hear me? You have no right!” His voice mixed in with Papa’s protests to create a word salad I couldn’t entirely make out.

 

“Oh, and you have? Did you birth her?” she yelled back.

 

“No, but I also didn’t _abandon_ her for _my own purposes_. I _adopted_ her when I married her father!”

 

“I had to leave! They were getting too close…!”

 

“ ** _I DON’T CARE!”_** Daddy thundered. His voice just about shook the room. “She is _my_ daughter now! You are officially _dead_ and I will not have you…”

 

I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped out of the bathroom door on impulse and said, “And don’t _I_ have a say in this?”

 

Everything stopped. The parlor was a frozen tableau. Daddy and Papa looked at me with obvious dismay on their faces. Even Uncle Myc was surprised; his eyebrows rose almost to his receded hairline. Ms. Morse, however, was all sweet and charming and overjoyed to see me. “Rosie!” she cooed.

 

“My name is _not_ ‘Rosie’,” I stated, firmly. I _hate_ that name. It’s the name I was given when I was christened, but _I_ certainly didn’t have any say in it. “My name is Amanda Violetta Holmes-Watson.”

 

I walked toward the group with more confidence than I felt, to be honest. The look on Ms. Morse’s face was almost comical, she was so taken aback. She turned to Papa and said, “You changed her name?”

 

Papa smiled. Yes, _that_ smile. “I wanted to erase your influence from her life as much as possible, _Mary_.” His emphasis on her name gave me an idea of what was going on here. “My daughter was _not_ going to live under your dubious shadow if _I_ had anything to say about it. Sherlock and I picked the name _together_.”

 

She wrinkled her nose at him. “It’s horrible.”

 

I saw red. “ ** _IT’S MY NAME_**!” I yelled at her. “I don’t _want_ any other name, even one _you_ gave me, **_MOTHER_**!”

 

_That_ did it. The genie was out of the bag, pardon the mixed metaphors. The brouhaha that followed was epic. Everyone was yelling at each other, blaming each other for alienating “the child” from her mother, abandonment, legal recourses, blah blah blah, until I finally couldn’t stand it anymore.

 

“ ** _STOP IT! STOP IT, ALL OF YOU_**!” I yelled. I have pretty good lungs when I care to use them. Once again, everything stopped. I was riding an adrenaline high and didn’t much care what I said anymore, I was just so tired of being “the child”. “It’s _my_ life and _I_ get to choose what happens to me. You…” I pointed at Ms. Morse, “are _not_ my Mum. _That_ …” I pointed to Daddy, “is my Mum, and he’s the best Mum a girl could ask for!”

 

Daddy’s face literally melted into the softest look I have ever seen there. Papa looked so proud. Ms. Morse looked…vaguely upset, but there was a coldness there, too, like an affronted lizard.

 

“Is _this_ how you raised _my_ daughter?” she asked. God, she sounded arrogant. I _hate_ arrogant.

 

“No, it’s how _we_ raised _our_ daughter,” Papa stated, stepping up to put an arm around Daddy. “ _You_ were not part of the equation. _You_ …are **_dead_**.”

 

>Click<. All made sense. “Wait a minute…the accident that killed my mother—it was _you_ , but you _didn’t_ _die_ ,” I accused.  Then I turned to Daddy and Papa. “Is this what you were hiding from me? That my mother was still alive?”

 

“ ** _NO_**!” they both shouted in unison. Papa said, “We thought your mother was dead. There was an explosion and we found a body, but it was so thoroughly burnt that all they could tell was that it was a female. We _knew_ your mother was inside the building, alone…” he cast a vicious look at Ms. Morse, “or, at least, we _thought_ she was. Now, it seems, it was all a setup so she could disappear again…”

 

“Again?” I yelped. I turned on her. “You’ve done this before? Abandoned people by faking your death…?”

 

“Hush, dear,” she said, softly, “You don’t know the whole story…”

 

“ ** _AND I DON’T WANT TO KNOW! YOU’RE NOT MY MOTHER! YOU’RE NOT MY FAMILY! GO AWAY!”_**   I screamed as I fled upstairs to my room and slammed the door.

 

The meeting went on for a little while longer, but the voices were low and I didn’t want to hear anything. I’d had enough for one day. Even when Daddy and Papa called me downstairs for dinner, I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t, not yet…


	5. Blog Entry 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Mum of a tale...

It’s been a couple of days since the Great Mother Blow-Up and I’m starting to feel a little more like myself again, instead of some secondary character in a really bad reality show. Coming to grips with the fact that you do, indeed, have a mother, but she faked her death to avoid being with you, is a bit of a stretch. At least, that’s how _I_ feel about it. She _left_. She left me and Papa and never looked back. Now, suddenly, she shows up out of nowhere, wanting to be family again. You know what I say to that? _Bullshite_ (sorry, Daddy and Papa).

 

When I came downstairs today for breakfast, they were both there and dressed, which is unusual for Daddy in the extreme. As soon as I entered the room, Daddy motioned for me to come over to his chair. His face had no real expression on it, so I had no idea what I was in for. I went over and sat down on his lap, as usual, as Papa brought me over some orange juice. He then sat down in his overstuffed chair across from Daddy’s.

 

I sipped my juice as I studied the two of them. It was hard to tell which way the wind was blowing. We’d spent the last couple of days not talking much, just the basics of human communication to keep minor catastrophes at bay. Now, it was obvious that it was time for The Talk. Daddy and Papa’s eyes met, and I knew the moment had come.

 

“How do you feel about what happened, Muffin?” Daddy asked quietly, his arm wrapped loosely around my waist. Papa leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him.

 

I thought before I answered. “I don’t know. Not like myself any more. Like something’s changed but I don’t have a proper handle on it. Does that make sense?”

 

Papa nodded. “That makes perfect sense, Mandy.”

 

Daddy rolled his eyes. “ _Amanda_ ,” he corrected. I smiled behind my juice glass. They do this all the time.

 

Papa spared him a dirty look before continuing. “Amanda. I think I understand what you’re saying. You’ve just had a pretty big shock…”

 

“And I’m proud of you, Muffin,” Daddy added with a big grin. “Your deductions were flawless.”

 

I must admit that I preened a little bit. That was high praise, coming from the Only Consulting Detective in the World.

 

“Ahem,” Papa cleared his throat pointedly. “As I was saying, you’ve just had some pretty significant things in your world changed…”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, John, she’s not one of your psych patients!” Daddy groused. He looked at me and said, “Muffin, you’ve just learned that the mother you thought was dead is actually alive. You’ve also learned that she and your Papa and I don’t get along. I think you need to know the reasons why.”

 

Papa dropped his head and sighed deeply.

 

“Papa? Are you okay?” I asked.

 

Papa looked up and our eyes met. He suddenly looked much older and more tired than usual. “No, Princess, I’m not. This was all _my_ fault…”

 

“No, John, it wasn’t,” Daddy replied firmly, before catching my eyes again. “Your Papa blames himself, but there’s a lot of blame to go around…”

 

“ _Sherlock_ …” 

 

Uh oh. Papa _never_ uses Daddy’s real name unless he’s seriously upset. As a child, I spent _years_ thinking Daddy’s first name was ‘Love’…

 

“It’s true, John. If I hadn’t foolishly taken the bait and jumped off St. Barts, none of this would have happened…”

 

I blinked. “You…jumped off a building, Daddy? _Really_?”

 

Daddy sort of half-smiled. “Yes…”

 

“Wow!” I enthused. “I want to hear all about that!”

 

Daddy pulled me closer and kissed me on the cheek fondly. “You will, Muffin, you will, but, first, we have to deal with the matter of Ms. Morse.”

 

I nodded. “Okay.”

 

“First off, we would like you to stay as far away from her as possible when you’re at school.”

 

I shuddered a little. “Agreed. Next?”

 

Daddy continued. “Good. Now, you are _not_ to go anywhere with anyone except me, Papa, Mrs. Hudson, Uncle Greg, Doctor Molly, or Uncle Mycroft. If anyone says they have permission _from us_ to pick you up, I want you to immediately go to a place of safety and _call_ us, like we’ve discussed before.”

 

I nodded. “You don’t trust her, do you?”

 

Papa spoke up. “No, Princess, we don’t, and we have some very good reasons for it.”

 

Between them, Daddy and Papa explained to me much of what happened all those years ago, before Papa met my mother. How they’d been fighting against a criminal mastermind who made Daddy jump off St. Barts and pretend to be dead in order to save Papa, Mrs. Hudson, and Uncle Greg. He’d had to spend _over two years_ on a mission in Eastern Europe before Uncle Myc brought him back to London. Unfortunately, by then, it was too late for Daddy to stop Papa from marrying my mother. Papa had come to think that he wanted a “normal” life with my mother. Daddy always says that “normal” is just a setting on a dryer and that Papa is _not_ , and _never will be_ , “normal”. Papa just laughs.

 

He wasn’t laughing now, though. It was obvious how badly he felt about marrying my mother, _especially_ after he found out she had not led a “normal” life prior to marrying him. Daddy and Papa were both _so_ _reluctant_ to tell me everything that I had to threaten to play Daddy’s violin at 4:00 a.m. _every morning_ until they did.  I totally _suck_ at playing the violin.

 

Papa started. “Your mother, Mary, was a nurse. She used to work at my practice. She was there for me, helped me get through my period of mourning. I liked her. I was grateful to her. To be honest, though, I’m not sure I actually _loved_ her.” He looked at Daddy and smiled. “At least, not like I loved your Daddy.”

 

Daddy blushed just a _tiny_ bit as he smiled back.

 

“Then why not marry Daddy when he came back?” I asked, all innocence. Boy, can I be dumb sometimes.

 

Papa sighed. “Because I didn’t feel like I could trust him again. He’d left me thinking he was dead. Your Daddy was the only person I had ever loved, and he left me…”

 

“Like my mother did,” I said, suddenly feeling a cold anger toward her.

 

Daddy squeezed me tight. “Yes,” he admitted. “I had to do it to save their lives and to destroy a criminal network that was still a threat to everyone I loved, but I hurt a lot of people in the process, _particularly_ your Papa. I’m sorry, Muffin…”

 

“About what?” I demanded. “What you did and what my mother did are two _entirely_ different things. _You_ wanted to protect Papa, but _she_ was running away from someone…” I stopped when I realized what I had just said. “Daddy, who was she running away from? And why?”

 

The two of them exchanged a look I can only describe as _pained_. Then Daddy caught my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Your mother…was not a very nice person, Muffin.”

 

“Like, how, ‘not nice’?” I asked.

 

I’m not sure I was completely prepared for what I was about to hear.

 

Blog Entry 5: Privacy Setting: Limited Access

 

Daddy pursed his lips and said, “She was an assassin.”

 

**_“SHERLOCK!”_ **

 

Blunt as a brick wall, that’s my Daddy.

 

“An…assassin? Like, a ninja?” I was having a little trouble wrapping my head around _that_ one.

 

Daddy said, softly. “No, Muffin, like a paid killer. She worked for some people who paid her to perform missions for them, missions which sometimes forced her to do bad things and to, sometimes,… _kill_ people.”

 

All I could do was whisper, “Oh, crap!”

 

Papa just buried his face in his hands and shook his head.

 

That was my mum. An assassin. A paid killer. Sketchiest of the sketchy. _Holy shite_.

 

“I think I’m going to go up to my room for a little bit, if you don’t mind,” I said, very, very quietly. They both nodded and Daddy helped me climb out of his lap. I trudged up the stairs to my room and gently closed the door. I had a lot of thinking to do.

 

_My mother was an assassin_. She _killed_ people.

 

I mean, what am I supposed to do now? Go to school like it’s just another day? “Oh, hello, Mum, killed any interesting people today?”

 

Elope to Scotland or something? That’s about as far as I can get on _my_ allowance.

 

Great. Wonderful. Living the dream here…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite know how the characters keep hijacking my cute little story...


	6. Blog Entry 6: Normal Access Restored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a pondering upon genetics and the solving of crimes...

It’s been a long time since my last blog entry, but I’ve had a _lot_ on my plate lately.

 

Not too long ago, I found out some things about my used-to-be-dead mother that have rather knocked me on my arse, to put it bluntly.

 

First, there is the fact that she’s not only not dead, she’s also the new nurse at my school. An added layer of weirdness to my already surreal school day.

 

Second, she wants to be a part of my life again. I’m not _at all_ sure how I feel about that.

 

No, strike that. I _am_ sure how I feel; _no bloody way_. Daddy has always been like a mum to me; he’s the one who fusses about my clothes and hair and what to do when I meet boys and such. Papa just laughs as he watches him; I think it makes him love Daddy even more every day.

 

After much thinking, I’ve decided I’m going to try to get back on with my life, with my two wonderful fathers, and my good friend Drew, and all my official (and unofficial) uncles and aunts. I’m going to avoid seeing the school nurse unless I’m critically wounded by a basilisk. I’m going to run from strangers and try to act as though everything else is still normal. I’m not entirely sure _how_ I’m going to do that, but it’ll be a challenge, _that’s_ for sure.

 

One thing that bothers me, though, is genetics. It fascinates me. Most of the sciences do. So, my question is, if my mum was a “bad person” (don’t ask), what is the percentage chance of me growing up to be a bad person, too?

 

I decided to run this past Daddy. Papa may be a doctor, but Daddy is a scientist; sometimes he just explains things better than Papa. Papa’s the one you want to have around when you break your arm jumping off a swing set (personal experience here); Daddy’s the one to explain Mendelian inheritance.

 

I found Daddy with his eye in a microscope again, doing some work for Scotland Yard. Uncle Greg brings over some of the most interesting cases for him; stuff that they can’t figure out. I plopped myself right down next to him and asked, “Daddy, am I going to grow up to be a bad person, too, just like Mum?” He adjusted the scroll on his scope and turned his face toward me before replying, “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

 

“Well, I have genetic material from both Mum and Papa, so if Mum is a bad person, and Papa is a good person, does that mean I have a 50% chance of being a bad person?” I asked.

 

“Doesn’t work that way, Muffin,” Daddy said, his smile crinkles reaching all the way up to his eyes. He loves it when we talk science. “DNA can account for _physical_ traits, but personality is much more complex than that.”

 

“You mean, like being a _tabula rasa_ when you’re born?”

 

He chuckled. “Big concepts for a little lady. No, there are _some_ things that are hard-coded into our nervous systems when we are born, but a lot of things are simply _potential_ traits. It’s like having a console full of switches, and what traits you manifest depend upon which switches you turn on or off. There are things that happened to your mum that helped shape her personality, making her the person she is today. You have been raised in a very different manner from her, so you will develop your own personality based on your own experiences and interactions. Do you understand?”

 

I thought about it. “I think so. So, while I may _look_ a bit like my mum, I don’t have to _behave_ like she does.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“What if I like the same things she does, or agree with her on something, or…?”

 

Daddy was laughing now. “So many questions, but I’m glad you’re asking them.” He reached out and laid his hand on my head. Daddy has such long hands and fingers, but his touch is _so_ gentle. He’s also an excellent violinist, as I’ve mentioned before. “Your personality is your _own_ , Muffin, no one else’s. Your _decisions_ are your own. How you react to things is uniquely _you_.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “From what little you know about your mum’s past, do you find her behavior laudable?”

 

I wrinkled my nose. “NO!”

 

“Would you be interested in setting out on a similar lifestyle, given the opportunity?”

 

“Again, NO!”

 

He ruffled my hair. “Then, I would say that I’m not, in the _least bit,_ worried about you. You have a good head on your shoulders, Amanda. I trust you to do the right thing. After all, you also take after your Papa, who is one of the finest men I have _ever_ known.” He leaned close and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I should know. I married him.” He winked.

 

I giggled. Sometimes Daddy can be really funny. He makes Papa laugh, which can be kind of hard. Papa’s a bit more dour and down-to-earth than Daddy is, even though Daddy can be pretty moody himself. Daddy has even, upon occasion, implied that Papa has “issues” inside that bother him sometimes. That’s why he needs Daddy, to bring him out of himself. And me, of course!

 

Daddy has also implied that Papa is a bit of an “adrenaline junkie.” That’s why he went to war instead of just staying in London and starting a practice. He _lives_ for excitement much like Daddy. That’s probably why his practice isn’t very big, because he’s always ready to drop everything and traipse off after Daddy when a good case shows up. They _used_ to leave me with Mrs. Hudson whenever that happened, but she finally put her foot down and said she was _not_ their babysitter and they had to take responsibility for me and so on and so forth. So, after that, if it was a local case, Daddy would put me in the baby sling and carry me along with him. Papa always ended up carrying the diaper bag, so Daddy got him a nice one that looks like a fancy overnight bag so he wouldn’t be embarrassed. If they had to travel far, though, they would, after much persuasion, leave me with Mrs. Hudson or Dr. Molly for safekeeping. A fancy dinner usually was the going rate for such services.

 

I remember Daddy telling me that, at one crime scene, one of the Yarders was making fun of him, calling him the World’s Only Consulting Babysitter. Papa stormed over and bopped him right in the nose. Broke it, too. Uncle Greg sent the man to A&E without pressing charges against Papa but with a warning not to do it again. Papa is _so_ protective of Daddy…

 

As I’ve gotten older, they’ve taken me to some of the less lurid crime scenes, and Daddy explains the forensics to me and how he comes to his deductions. Papa still says, “Incredible! Amazing! Fantastic” after all these years, and Daddy still blushes. Daddy says that one of his favorite memories is, when I was about five, he had finished one of his deductive monologues and I had grabbed his hand, looked up into his face, and yelled, “THAT WAS SO COOL, DADDY!” He said he just about swooned with delight.

 

It was actually at a crime scene that I first met Drew. I was there with Daddy and Papa and Uncle Greg when a lady came over and almost shoved a boy about my own age at Uncle Greg. “It’s _your_ weekend,” she said in an unpleasant tone of voice. She then turned on her heel, walked to a dark-colored car and took off without so much as a good-bye to the boy or Uncle Greg. The boy looked so sad when he looked at me that I couldn’t resist. I walked over, stuck out my hand, and said, “Hi! I’m Amanda, but people call me Mandy!”

 

“ _I_ don’t,“ Daddy growled behind me.

 

“Oh, hush, Daddy,” I said as I took his hand and shook it, just like Papa had taught me. A good handshake can tell you a lot about a person, he says. Drew was a little tentative, but he smiled as we shook, and his handshake became a little stronger. “I’m Andrew. Andrew Lestrade. Friends call me Drew.”

 

“Not that there are many of those, “ Uncle Greg said, ruffling Drew’s hair fondly. “He’s a bit of an introvert; bookish, you know?”

 

“Well, then, he and Mandy should get along just fine,” Papa said. “She’s quite the extrovert but has a good head on her shoulders that’s just _full_ of interesting stuff.”

 

“ _Amanda_ ,” Daddy hissed. We all ignored him and he settled.

 

“Why are _you_ here?” he asked, sort of meekly. “This isn’t someplace my mum ever wanted me to be. She said she left _that_ sort of thing to my dad.”

 

“Well, I’m here with my fathers. They help Uncle Greg solve crimes.” I turned and pointed. “That’s my Daddy, Sherlock Holmes, and my Papa, Dr. John Watson.”

 

Drew’s eyes grew large. “Sherlock Holmes? THE Sherlock Holmes? My dad has told me _lots_ of stories about him! Is he really as brilliant as my father says?”

 

“Even more so,” I said, proudly. “Daddy can solve pretty much _any_ puzzle he sets his mind to. And my Papa helps him.” I smiled at Drew and he smiled back. He was a pretty good-looking kid, just kind of shy. I figured he had a lot of potential.

 

That was the humble beginning of a friendship that has lasted for many years.


End file.
